Tales of Old Prussia
by Killy the Calamity
Summary: Drabble anthology for a thing I'm working on. Alternate Timeline dual Prussias, one old and one obnoxiously new. CanonxOC involved.
1. Priorities

The light streaming through the windows that day was almost silver. Silver and blue. Winter storms were always silver and blue, she mused, with low fluffy clouds of light grey. The kind that reflected light back after dark and turned them a strange sort of orange. It had been snowing off and on all week, small spits and blustery flurries, leaving a layer of snow almost eight inches thick on the ground with the threat of more still to come floating above.

Zhemyna looked up from her paperwork, a small stack sent to her by her parliamentary council in Paleugmeddi to review and send back with comments, and looked out the window to assess the weather for a moment. Though the inside of the house was warmed by a modern commercial heating system, she could still feel the chill wafting off the big curved bay window that took up this corner of house. A glance was given toward a spot in the wall next to the window, a discoloration of semi-new plaster that had once been the hole for a fireplace. She was glad for the loss of most of the fireplaces in the house with the advent of modernized heating systems, though she would have to close the curtains soon; so much glass counteracted the heat just enough that it did little to heat the room itself.

She looked down to the report with an almost withered defeat, then checked the clock on her wall that was ticking the time merrily along and decided she needed a break. Setting her pen in the closing folder to hold her place, she stood, turned, and closed the heavy brocade curtains over the window. By the time she returned, the darkened office would be as warm as snuggling into bed. The overhead lights were flicked off, a single small desk lamp left on for her to see by, and the door shut as she left and clicked her way off toward the day kitchen.

Someone had brewed a fresh pot of coffee some time earlier, of which the Nation was grateful of. A clean mug was pulled from the hooks just above the machine, inspected out of habit from days long since passed, before the dark steaming drink was poured, black and earthy. Hot drinks were good on cold days, and with the mug in hand, she turned toward the event kitchen and subsequently the dining hall at the back of the house.

More like an atrium, the expansive dining hall was encased on its back wall and arched roof in glass, thick and reinforced panes that acted with air pockets between to keep the weather outside from infiltrating into the temperature inside. It kept the room warm in winter and chill at the height of summer despite being mostly constructed of glass.

It had started snowing again, big lazy flakes starting down from the low clouds above. She settled back against the grand raw-wood table to watch it as it floated to land peacefully on the old snowfall, not hearing so much as simply knowing when her own peace was disturbed.

"I see the snow has returned."

It was always easy to tell when the Head of House was in the room, if not by her authoritative presence changing the atmosphere itself then by the way she always announced herself verbally on entry. A stout woman, short and broad about the shoulders and hips, Almyra carried herself as though she commanded an army. In terms of the sizable house staff, she might as well have.

The Nation simply nodded to the statement, partially in greeting and partially in affirmation. "Yes, it has. I probably would not have noticed had the winter chill not penetrated the window in my den."

"I will let maintenance know the window insulation needs checking." Almyra assured her and receiving a nod and noise of confirmation from the taller woman before falling quiet.

The shorter Prussian woman moved around to stand beside Zhemyna. They watched the snow fall in silence for a time, the only sounds the ambient rumble of the heating system and the occasional sip of coffee. The snowfall increased in volume, blotting out the barn and stables on the other end of the backyard, beyond the courtyard, from view.

"Did you let him out?"

The sudden break of the quiet caused Zhemyna to start, though she would never have admitted to it. She pulled the mug down from her lips and looked toward Almyra, who was pointing discretely to the courtyard. It took a moment to see through the visual noise that was the heavy snowfall, picking out the outline of another person.

She recognized the build, the height, and the albinism that was Gilbert walking with quick light steps over the footpaths through the rose garden, channels carved by shoveling earlier now clad with snowed divots. Even if she couldn't quite pick him out, a bright yellow splotch nestled in the light-colored fur lining of his puffy white winter jacket gave him away.

She let out a small sigh of relative relief before taking the delayed drink of her coffee, uttering a slightly-muffled and amused reply of, "No. I did not. Probably snuck out through the greenhouse."

Almyra made a contemplative noise in her throat, looking skyward before resuming her vigilance of the courtyard. "It's snowing hard now. Do you think he knows of the alarm system?" she asked. There was a small hint of concern tugging at her voice. "It would be truly awful to _lose_ the young Master, don't you think."

Zhemyna shook her head casually, a visual response to match the verbal. "I highly doubt he needs one. There is not much trouble he can get into in the backyard."

Almyra sighed and shook her head slowly to one side. "If you say so, Mistress. But I doubt it's wise to let an albino out into a budding flurry, as such we get, without an alarm on them." She squinted, leaning forward just slightly to see through the gloom and curtain of snowfall. "Especially when they decide to go toppling over the side of the basalt shelf like he just did."

Zhemyna paused with the mug to her lips, looking in the general direction Gilbert had been moving toward. While the path he took was indeed toward the natural basalt-created terraces, he might have diverged slightly. It was admittedly very difficult to see with so much snow in the air. "I am sure he is alright. No proper military general of his caliber goes about without some idea of the terrain."

"Well, he would have decent scope of the terrain if he could see it, I'm sure." Almyra replied haughtily.

Zhemyna offered a small snort of laughter into her cup as she took another drink. "To be perfectly honest, he just does not like you, so calling him blind because he bumps into the walls periodically to get around you is hardly fair."

"I was referring to his use of _glasses_ , Mistress. Surely those giant things haven't escaped your gaze." came the smug response.

Zhemyna wobbled her head in a sort of half-acceptance. If anyone in the house could get away with such scoldings, it was certainly the Head of House. "I will give you that. But that does not detract from the idea that he has traversed and patrolled the grounds numerously over the last several years."

"Has he ever traversed it in the snow, though."

It was not so much a question as a flat observation. The tall Nation realized that although Almyra wasn't openly showing much affection or emotion toward Gilbert, she sounded a little worried in the undertone. Well, the snow _was_ starting to get thicker and heavier...

"Oh for the love of above and below..." she muttered, looking toward the Head of House. "Would it make you feel better if I went to check on him?"

There was a second of silence, a sort of smugness emanating from the shorter Prussian giving all the answer that was required. Zhemyna sighed, looking at the coffee mug in her hand. "Alright. You win, I will go and check on him. Please bring me my winter-wear, if you would, Almyra."

She ceased being surprised that her Head of House seemed to teleport wherever she went. In the time it took for the Nation to finish her cup's contents and set it on the table, the shorter woman had been to the coat closet at the front of the house and returned with the requested wear. Rather than using her presence to announce herself, the old brown cloak she carried with her did plenty of that. Sewn along the peppered white fox fur hem was a string of large silvery jingle bells, documenting the head-maid's trek through the house with a garish cacophony echoing through the corridors, the glass-covered chamber of the atrium reverberating the higher tones back and changing the sound just enough to notice. The bells clanged raucously as Almyra draped the wool cloak and the heavy silver longcoat on the back of one of the dining chairs, handing the taller Nation a pair of winter boots first. She slid into them and laced up with a practiced ease, closing and zipping the outer lace guards to keep snow out of them.

"I do apologize for the cloak, I know it's a bit old-fashioned," Almyra started, handing over the gloves next. "But I couldn't find any of the smaller strings of bells."

"Any bells in this weather is better than no bells." Zhemyna replied, pulling on and fastening the gloves tightly around her wrist, pointing in a wordless demand for the longcoat next. "I prefer the cloak, really. You can hear that thing for miles, I swear my life and soul on it."

Almyra complied with the request, handing the coat to her. "I would rather prefer you didn't swear your life and soul on anything, Mistress. Doing so might break this country into pieces."

"And then you would all be South." The chuckle that escaped at the bad joke was just as dark, gloved fingers closing buttons one after the other on the longcoat once it was settled on her. A few small button or zipper-based adjustments and the coat fit neatly and warmly, a small indicating nod of her head given for the last bit of the ensemble.

"Precisely." That word was almost too bright, receiving a raised brow as the cloak was pulled loudly upward and handed to the taller Nation.

It was silent as she swirled it up and across her shoulders, fastening it at her throat and fluffing it. The fluffing of the collar did little to keep the bells as quiet as before, they chimed brightly until the fur was just puffy enough to her liking she could stop. With a decisive nod of approval, she made her way toward the backdoors leading from the atrium into the courtyard below, Almyra moving with a practiced grace ahead of her to open the door. The cold air through the open door was such a momentary shock when it hit her that it took her breath away, a sharp draw in to prepare her lungs for the change.

"If I do not return in two hours, assume I am lost and send a search party." she stated before taking a step into the cold outdoors.

"Most certainly." Almyra assured, watching the towering Nation sweep passed her and out the door, down the steps to the ground below.

The door was clicked shut, drowning out the ambient thrum of the heating system and leaving Zhemyna in the chill and near silent outdoors. The house, with its rusty red outer walls and the polished swamp-wood as trim, was vibrant against the silver-tinted world around it, a splash of color against the white sparkling snow.

With a visible puff of breath that moved the fur near her mouth, she started the trek through the courtyard. The only sounds to escape the muffled wintery quiet were the light crunch of her footsteps in the snow and the bright jingling of the bells adorning the old cloak. Thankfully, the footpaths were clearly marked, and she had them all memorized otherwise. She followed them passed ghostly rosebushes, cut and covered in plastic for the winter months and piled with snow like wraiths rising from the white down. Down garden steps and around the central fountain, turned off and insulated for the harsh winter temperatures, she finally met up with Gilbert's steadily-disappearing boot prints, offering up a sigh as to how she had been talked into this before turning to follow the trail.

Shapes loomed out of the curtain of snowfall, fuzzy silhouettes until she reached them. Fences were first and a closer look at the others proved to be the barns and stables. He had been by the paddocks, probably due to poor visibility given the prints veered off unsteadily to the left and followed the fence-line. She made her way alongside his trail, making her own set of prints next to his. There were a few spots where he lost footing, she noted the smears and shallow chasms between prints and avoided the places carefully.

It wasn't long before she saw Paleugmeddi and smelled the tingling scent of mint-reminiscent brine from the sea. Or rather, saw the glow of the city, even at midday. Individual streets and structures were still obscured from view, but warm city lights still blazed brilliantly in the haze, offering a beacon to any lost on the craggy moors. She was glad to see it; if something happened and she _did_ become lost, at least she could find her way to the capital and call in to let the house know she was alright and safe.

She arrived at the first basalt shelf, noting with a begrudging sort of amusement that Gilbert had indeed gone over the edge of it to the natural terrace below. Though given his print at the edge, with one hand in the snow and the rest of his lower body upsetting it in a fine mold of his crouch, it was easy to surmise that he hadn't _toppled_ over the edge so much as simply _jumped_. She looked down, carefully bending over the void to see if she could find him by sight alone. It was a good eight or nine feet to the base, probably less given the cushioning layer of snow. In the afternoon gloom, she could clearly make out the sharp edges of where he landed and the tiny fresh piles around him, upset from the upper edge of the shelf at his jump down.

She cupped a hand to her mouth from under her warm cloak, calling out his name to see if he would answer. Nothing was returned, no verbal acknowledgements, no crunching snow. Not even a flash of his red eyes looking in her general direction. The only thing she heard in response was her shifting weight making the snow under her groan in protest.

Rather than follow his example, she determined jumping was not ideal for her. She stepped away from the edge of the natural wall and began the longer trek around it, knowing there was a gradual slope at the other end she used regularly to climb down this side of her hill. It was more treacherous in this weather, however, and after the third or fourth time her foot slipped on it, she regretted not following the albino's example and simply jumping over the edge. A small muttering of contempt was given to the bells, chiming sharply as though admonishing her for going the long way around.

She came to the landing against the wall, noting with some appreciation how the basalt created a space where the snow blown by a southern wind didn't fall quite as heavily. A pocket where the volume was halved, though still falling in enough quantity to cause long-distance sighting issues. She could see a little more clearly, the splash in the powder where Gilbert had landed, the faint prints in the snow around it. In fact, she hadn't noticed it from above, but there was a veritable confusion of his prints all over on the terrace, punctuated by sweeping streaks and canyons carved in the frozen crystalline landscape, trampling the snowpack down considerably. There was no rhyme or reason to it, it was simply everywhere.

Had there been any large predatory animals in North Prussia, she may have worried somewhat; they did have friendly foxes and deer and other such commonplace fauna, but nothing substantially large. It was this revelation that she doubted he had been assaulted by anything and figured he was trying to distract from something. She ran to the next edge of the terrace, looking over the wall carefully. There were no noticeable indentations below, the snow looking fresh and untouched from where she stood. Satisfied with the thought that he hadn't gone further than that level, she turned back toward the center of the jumble to try to sort it out.

She didn't have to wait for long.

Before she had a chance to think on what to do next, his trademark snickering hiss echoed across the terrace, an ominous harbinger of whatever mischief he'd concocted. She stood up straight, quick enough the bells gave out a merry tinkling.

" **FIRE IN THE HOLE!"**

The German's voice roared into the space, slicing through the snowy quiet like cannon fire. Rather than trying to pinpoint where it was coming from, she reflexively pulled the cloak up and over her head in time to see the first two indents, hear the thud and splash of powdery projectiles as they collided with the heavy wool. She chanced a peek around the fur hem after a few seconds of silence and caught sight of him finally. Had it not been for the frosted darker background of the basalt wall behind him, she likely would have missed him; he was clad mostly in white, save for the grey-flecked synthetic fur of his puffy winter coat.

As soon as she laid eyes on him, he made a noise that sounded something like a strangled 'oop!' and ducked down behind a crudely packed wall of snow about waist-height. She was astounded, rising to stand and assess where it was exactly this hidden snowfort of his lay. She should have seen him from above, but that brief glance was enough to tell her that he had nestled himself just out of sight from where he jumped down. Had she looked further along the edge, she might have caught sight of his machinations, but she hadn't. Simply moved away from it. She'd set herself up for this by not being more observant, this was her fault.

She stood up again, quickly, and ran back the way she had come as soon as the bells started jingling. Behind her was a constant noise of ' _paf!paf!paf!'_ as one snowball after another was aimed and thrown with a surprising amount of accuracy, accompanied by a symphony of jovial snickering. She might have been impressed if she wasn't concentrating on staying ahead of the onslaught long enough to get out of range.

"Honestly. Who wears _bells_ to a stealth fight! It's impractical!" he yelled out to her when he realized none of his missiles were even remotely close to hitting their target any longer.

"They are an age-old survival technique. I was not informed this would be a stealth fight, only that you were going to get yourself lost." she yelled back, turning to face him again from across the terrace. "As such, I am perfectly dressed for the task I set out to do. It is not _my_ fault your communication skills need work."

"My communication skills are just fine! It's your kooky traditions that need work."

She shook her head and took a few slow steps forward. The movement kept the bells from moving too much and the packed snow made hardly any crunch beneath her. "At least my 'kooky traditions' have saved lives in the time they have been in use."

He appeared to not hear her, or at least not acknowledge her reply, for there was no retort. She took a couple more steps toward his fort, attempting to get close enough she could quietly make a snowball and hit him with it, to end it before it began and return to the warm confines of the house. It seemed the cloak had another idea in mind, however, catching on the roughened snow at her feet and inciting the bells to riot.

She started as he stood up suddenly, those startling red eyes finding her almost immediately. Not that she would admit it startled her at all, even if asked. They stared at each other for a moment, as though he were surprised she was as close as she was before his face split in a devious crooked smirk. He raised a hand to sight down, the other pulled behind his head with a snowball of his own at the ready.

As soon as she saw it, her reflexes kicked in and caused her to backtrack as quickly as possible with a wild cacophony of melodic jingling bells. They proved to be her downfall, one of them slipping effortlessly between her calves and tangling itself around a leg, pulling the woolen cloak taut and her shoulders and neck with it. It wasn't long before she found herself on her back on the ground, dazed and staring up at the sky.

Gilbert had stepped over his barricade as soon as she went down, coming into view standing over her. He bent a little forward so he could see her better, blocking out some of the snow like a living umbrella. There was a twinge of concern on his face, seen in the furrowed brows and twisted mouth.

"If that's how they help people, I'm amazed there's not more dead." he stated. "You alright?"

It took a moment for her to catch up with herself again, but she still managed to answer him with a clear, " _Jia_..."

His expression changed in an instant from one of slight worry to the devious grin as he straightened back upright, his armed arm pulling back with the other still sighting for her face. " _Gut_. Because I still have a snowball with your name on it."

Despite the world settling from spinning, she put her hands up defensively in an attempt to disrupt his aim. "Gilbert Beilschmidt, if you hit me with that, I swear to gods above and below that you will be sleeping on the _couch_!"

He paused to think, his arm barely having started the swing before the threat. He let it fall back to his side, the grin fading to a look of dramatic thinking. It took him all of a couple seconds before he'd made up his mind, raising his firing arm again.

"At least the couch is comfy."

The swing was completed, a comically characteristic splat as the half-melted snowball managed to barely clip a guarding finger and broke apart over her head. As soon as the sting of the cold seeped into her face, her expression curled and distorted, horror giving way to something hateful. Her lips pulled back to bare teeth with a roar of vehement vengeance rather than anything remotely intelligible, the expulsion of which caused her German companion to take a few steps back out of arm's reach. The bemused smirk on his face told her this was exactly what he was after, however. For some reason she couldn't quite explain, it only made her angrier at him.

It took her a moment to properly formulate anything remotely like words. When she did, it came first in a torrent of profanity, Prussian slang of such subjects no man or woman would have dared to utter in any age, modern or otherwise. Her hands flew to the ties of the cloak, fingers fumbling with the bows and knots and buttons. As soon as she had it open, she rolled up on her feet and advanced on her assailant, shoulders squared and head held low in a show of threat.

Gilbert was laughing as he expelled an, "Oh shit!" and beat a hasty retreat back toward his snowfort. Zhemyna had veered off for a pile of untouched snow at the base of the rock wall, bending down to scoop a handful and pack it into a ball, sighting his running form not far from her. His cackle was still ringing off the walls, giving the space its own mirth to match his. Changing the terrain to be his own.

She skid to a stop and threw the snowball at him in time to watch as he leaped up and over the forward wall of his fort, diving behind it and using the barrier to shield himself from her counterattack. The ball flew true, thrown with such force that it embedded itself a fair way into the packed snow of the wall with a dull crackling thud, a faint network of fractures spreading across the surface from the impact. The action itself was therapeutic, slightly lessening her need for revenge at being attacked.

She heard him scuff snow with a start on contact, his white-haired head popping up enough to bend over the edge and look down at the projectile meant for him. "Holy shit..." he muttered before looking back up toward her. "What the Hell was in that one! Rocks?"

She took a few steps forward, focusing on the ball she threw and ignoring when the albino ducked back down out of sight. A glint of hazy light revealed smooth shards scattered among the crumbling white powder. "Oh. Oops. A little ice seems to have gotten mixed in that one. Sorry."

"'Oops'?" he reiterated, slightly muffled from behind his veil of snow. "I throw snow at you and you try to take my head off with _ice_ and all you can say is fucking ' _oops'_!?" His accusations were counterpointed with a string of agitated chirping. "Yeah! Yeah, you tell her how _uncool_ that was!"

She bent down, scooping a handful of powder and after inspecting it properly, began patting it into shape while Gilbird continued on its tweeting tirade with Gilbert adding in the occasional affirmative. "Well. I _did_ say I was sorry." she finally interjected, inspecting the packed ball of snow in her hand before taking a few steps closer to the fort and choosing her next words carefully. "I highly doubt you have any idea what your bird is actually saying. Sounds like a bunch of unintelligible tweeting to me."

If indignation had a name, it was Gilbert. He popped up like a jack-in-the-box the instant he realized he'd been insulted even slightly, a dust of accumulated snow fluttering from the fur of his coat with the huffing inhale of breath. A small smirk of smug amusement quirked its way across her face at the mental image of him puffing in much the same way the little yellow bird on his shoulder was.

"Oh like _Hell_ I don-"

His retort was stopped short by the snowball she had carefully crafted finding its mark and splattering across his face, causing the bird on his shoulder to flutter its tiny wings with a sharp angry twittering. It took everything to stifle a giggle bubbling in her chest while he wiped the remains of the missile off his face, the strain in her voice evident. "That one was powder. I made sure of it."

She caught sight of his red eyes long enough to turn and run, glaring but with a softer touch of playfulness. She heard him bound back over his barricade and give chase, letting loose a joyful pent laugh that left music in the air in her wake. The scuff of boots in the snow behind her as she ran back toward the slope she had followed onto the terrace, the splash of powdery ammunition on her heels mingling with his own cackling laughter.

Her target was an old gnarled pine that had rooted on the hillside near the exit, dark and polished with ice, a sharp contrast against its silvery surroundings and glittering snow. She ran toward it, glad she had left the cumbersome bell-cloak behind. Her plans to turn the little scuffle into the stealth fight he wanted would have been severely hindered by it. Even if she could feel the wind biting more than before against her face and partially exposed neck and perhaps slightly regretted leaving it behind for that.

She ducked behind the tree's trunk in time to hear the splash of snow against it, right where her head had been no more than a second before. She pulled herself close to the wood and chanced a peek around it to see where her adversary was. He wasn't very far from her and as soon as their eyes locked, he made a dramatic display of a pitcher's wind-up before throwing a small ball in her direction and starting after it at a brisk walk.

She hid quickly again to let the snowball go whizzing passed and splatter against the slope nearby before making a bolt up the incline herself once she was sure he knew she was hiding there. This would provide an excellent distraction while she made her way to the top of the hill again. To do what was still a mystery.

Knowing Gilbert, there was a key to this. Something that once stopped would end the whole fight. Or once _captured_. She managed her way around the top of the slope, slid once on the curve that followed the edge of the basalt wall before regaining traction as the realization hit her.

 _His fort..._

She caught sight of him on the lower terrace darting around the trunk with a new snowball at the ready and stopping, the swirl of his white hair as he looked around the tree almost like the snow itself. Left, right, around the curve of the wall where the slope began to rise, and then up. Even though her footsteps were muffled, she was still visible against the sky and the house, her dark trailing mane like a signal pointing in her direction. She knew when he saw her, could hear the muffled call of, "Oh no you don't!" before she caught a brief glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. No doubt, it was him running after her.

Dealing with Prussian winters helped aide her now in the race for the snowfort. Especially since the terrace below had been nearly trampled flat or shoveled and formed into the fort and its substantial arsenal stores, leaving Gilbert with mostly-flat terrain compared to her substantial snowpack. It wasn't long before she heard him crunch along practically at her side, a driving incentive to keep her moving.

The fort came into view within a few seconds, pale blue shadows giving away the crude curve of the walls and the stockpile of snowballs neatly stacked against the wall on one side. She could feel the burn in her legs and in her lungs as she tried to breathe in cold sea-tinged air, forcing a last burst of power into her stride despite creeping fatigue, veering for the ledge. She caught sight of her opponent bending forward for a final shot of speed when she put her foot down only to hear the ground snap and felt it give way under her. Only one thought crossed her mind as she inhaled sharply at the surprise and watched helplessly as the top of the basalt shelf went flying passed her; _This might hurt..._

It was not as painful as she was expecting. Besides the stinging wet cold of snow against her skin, her landing was cushioned by the once-neat pile of snowballs against the back wall of the fort, sending an impressive cloud of powder into the air. The ice sheet she had cracked and dislodged from above had brought down a small avalanche around it, partially burying her as she thudded upside down against the back wall of the terrace and narrowly missed cracking her head on the ground. She stayed in place to rest and catch her breath, too tired to move for the time being, her breath exiting in what could have been tangible puffs mixed with the snow she had displaced.

Through the glittering cloud and her own stream of heavy worked breath, she saw him slow to a walk and step back inside the half-buried remains of his fort, coming to a crouch next to her with his chin rested in the palm of one hand. His eyes mirrored the bemused grin wending its way across his face as he observed the devastation she had wrought before landing on her. She was sprawled upside down amid a partially flattened pile of what used to be perfectly formed and stacked snowballs, so close to the back wall of the terrace that she could feel the extra waft of cold air from the stone. It was a moment more before he spoke up, likely catching his own breath.

"You know, that _might_ have been more impressive if you'd landed on your feet." The joviality in his face fueled the equally-amused tone of voice, a small huff of air given toward the faintest of laughs. "Now, _I_ would have landed on my feet. But I guess we can't all be as awesome as I am, _ja_?"

The short rest had done her good enough to move again, which was good since she could feel the snow melting and starting to soak into the clothing under the coat, where it had infiltrated on her disastrous landing. She moved, untangling herself as best she could from the remains of the avalanche and snowballs to roll over and hold her upper torso above the mess. "Well. I did take out your ammunitions, so I would call that a victory. A small one, but small victories are better than none at all."

He loosed a small uneven humming at her revelation, reaching forward to absently dust away a small bit of caking wet snow across her shoulders. "Mmmmmmmm _nein_. This is why I handle the military and you don't." He shifted his crouch for better stability, leaning a little more forward to take hold of her upper arms and, with her help, pull her out of the powdery mess she had been stuck in. "But! You are _my_ wife, so I can overlook a few discrepancies. Six out of ten for planning and motive, four off for pisspoor execution."

"I feel honored." she snarked, sarcasm lacing her tone as she used his help to shift to a proper sitting position. "Though, I am certain it is still a better score than your brother would have gotten."

The snort Gilbert expelled veiled his face momentarily behind breath-vapor. She could have sworn it echoed off the basalt. "Germany is a soldier. Such sloppy work would be admonished, yes. _You_ are a farmer. It's different."

She let him continue dusting her clean, putting her hands on her hips defiantly. "I do not see how that makes it any different. I fight just as well as any soldier."

Bait, which he ate up like a hungry fish at a line. " _Nein_! You have no formal training, it is very different." He grabbed one of her wrists, extended the arm attached without resistance to brush the clinging patches of white from it, resting it across one of his shoulders when done and beginning on the other one in similar fashion. "You have ferocity, but it's unrefined."

Her other arm, now cleaned of any snow, was plopped on his other shoulder, disrupting Gilbird to flutter up to the top of the albino's head and puff in annoyance. She offered the bird an apologetic glance before locking her wrists together behind the German's head, her green eyes resuming contact with his red. "Should I take that as a compliment?"

He shrugged, a brief raise of his shoulders in response before he rested his hands on her hips and pulled her a little closer to him, her embrace tightening lightly around him and guiding his upper torso and head nearer to her. "Take it as you will, it's not an insult." he told her.

The lopsided grin he shared as he settled his forehead against hers drew a smile of her own, accompanied by a little musical laugh that soon played duet to his own trademark snicker. The tip of her nose poked his and he responded by rubbing it on hers, laughter shared between them.

His attention returned to the pile of snow that had once been his prized arsenal. "I suppose we should find something else to do then, since your heavy ass wrought unwarranted devastation on my snowfort."

"'Unwarranted'!?" she huffed, putting her hands on her hips. A pout was awarded him at the poke of her weight, her left arm brought up to flex for inspection. "I may be heavy, but I have well _earned_ such heaviness, thank you kindly."

Though it was difficult to see the corded outline of muscle through the heavy shirts and longcoat sleeve, he still loosed an approving hum to match the off-balance smirk making its way across one half of his face. " _Ja, ja_ , I get it. Put the guns away before you shoot someone's eye out. Like mine, since they're in the line of fire."

It was a little poke, an appreciative teasing. One she took in stride as they rubbed noses a second time, putting both hands on his shoulders. "I would much rather kiss you, you know..."

"I know. It's so hard to keep yourself from me, but even I admit it's a bit too cold to let you kiss this flawlessness. Might freeze our lips together. Try explaining _that_ to your hag."

"She is not a hag, she is Head of House and does not mind what happens between married couples. Besides, there are more _interesting_ ways to be frozen together."

His cold-reddened cheeks appeared to grow brighter, not much of a feat against his pale skin. She didn't need to be told where it was his mind had wandered, his mouth opening to retort but stopping as he looked skyward. It wasn't an unfounded silence, as the both of them noticed that the ambient breeze from the south had stopped. It was like the snowflakes in the air were suspended above the ground, strings of glitter in the silvery-blue quiet, eerie in the way the world seemed to stop moving entirely save for their consistent puffs of breath.

It took a short moment for Zhemyna to remember what it meant, a shiver of intuitive memory up her spine as she slipped her way to her feet and grasped at Gilbert's jacket on the way, a silent signal to get him to follow her as she started a quick jog across the terrace. Gilbird flitted down into the space between the albino's coat and himself at the back of the jacket, disappearing completely from view. Gilbert was not far behind her, catching up and keeping pace as they reached the place she had left the bell-ridden cloak of before.

"Grab the cloak and pass it here, please." It was more a demand than a request, her accent shifting from the upward perpetual-questioning to the downward revelationary inflection.

"Why me, not you?"

"Because you are closer to the ground than I am."

A snort escaped him at that, a muttered, "Not my fault you're a damned sentient tree..."

" _Gilbert_!"

"Alright, alright, I'll get the abomination of _noise_. Don't have a conniption."

He bent down to grab hold of the darker garment, a quick shake of it as he hauled it up causing the bells to ring more clearly in the still cold air. The motion carried through to toss it toward her, and she caught it without much trouble as they made it across the ledge to the path leading to the top of the hill.

The sirens sheered the silence like a knife, slicing through the cold and ringing against the basalt shelves of the estate's hill as though trying to warn the ground itself. Gilbert slowed down a little to look toward the blob of light that was Paleugmeddi. He'd barely gotten a, "What the hell...?" out when the sirens were drowned out by a dull roar.

Zhemyna didn't have to tell him to run toward the house, watching as he started bolting to the best of his ability through snowpack up to his knees as soon as the wall of snow started blotting out the lights on the far end of the city below. The external lights on the main stables guided them toward it, following the fence-line back toward the house. She managed to tie the cloak closed again with tight knots, unaware of how cold she had been until the warm woolen confines covered her again.

The stables were reached, the manor's external lights glinted through the gloom as the next point of reference, the roaring of the wind and snow growing behind them to a deafening echo amplified by the closeness of the estate's buildings. Glowing white splotches beneath the snow in the rose garden betrayed the path lights had been flicked on, little pools gleaming and glittering. She almost tripped on one of the outlying lamps, a spray of illuminated snow into the carved channels for the path through the garden courtyard as she stumbled into the open. It hurt to breathe, her lungs painfully devouring icy air, her legs like frozen weights. Another burst of glittering light flew passed her, Gilbert having finished bounding through the thick snowpack and stumbling a few steps to catch his bearings before running ahead of her.

The wind began to quicken and swirl the snow in the air into a flurried ballet, the harbinger noise of the wind encompassing. She caught her step to run without stumbling, stomping excess snow from her legs and fueled passed the point of exhaustion by the stormy onslaught behind her, nipping the edges of the cloak's fox-fur hem like a hungry dragon woken from a long sleep and drowning out the bright chime of the bells. She looked briefly over her shoulder to see the first wisping tendrils of the snow wall bearing down on them, riding the forward wind of the flash blizzard to crest the obstacle that was her estate's hill.

She looked back ahead, locating her fellow Nation as he navigated the winding paths through the back garden toward the atrium. One back door was open, a glowing invitation of warmth and safety. He took whatever shortcut he could, including scrambling over the fountain to the tier above. It appeared an effortless move at first, though he was slow in regaining his feet at the top. It was a split second, but there was fatigue in his movements and she was gaining ground on him due to it. She would overtake him soon and if she didn't do something, he would be left to the elements in her wake.

The wind sucked back around her ankles, pulling fresh snowfall with it like water before a tsunami. She yelled his name, surprised she could hear herself and even more surprised when he proved he could as well. He turned around sharply at the sound, taking a few stumbling steps backward and accompanied by what she took as some expletive spit into being at the sight of the storm.

Before he had a chance to turn back around, she scaled the steps at the side of the fountain and closed the distance to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and sweeping him off the ground without resistance. She couldn't hear what exactly he was yelling in her ear above the roar of the wind and snow as she ran for the open back door. A few good long strides closed the distance enough she was able to fling the albino through the threshold into the arms of a few waiting maids, without a doubt rallied by Almyra. She tripped up the steps and into the golden warmth of the atrium, hitting the wooden floor with a thud of her body and the bright jingling of the heavy bells.

A pair of stout maids manning the open doors pushed them closed and latched them in place with the frame bolts, setting a sturdy support bar across them in time for the ferocious wall of wind and snow to strike. It hit the house with a loud groaning shriek and covering the atrium glass in a solid sheet of white, the doors rattling violently in their frames.

Instinctively, she put her arms above her head to shield it from the conditions, though relaxed as soon as she felt a hand at her back. Heavy, yet comforting and warm. She looked up, memories of being buried beneath flash blizzards dissipating with the sight of Gilbert crouched next to her with that lopsided grin and glittering red eyes, his face flushed in a mixture of the biting cold and exertion. He didn't say anything about the concern he was feeling, but it was there in the way his features creased just slightly. The knit of his brow, the faint twist in the corner of his grin. A familiarity she had come to read well.

"Guess you trust me pretty well, eh?"

She recognized the joke as his sign of checking on her, and answered it accordingly once her breathing had evened out. "I suppose I did throw you rather far." His face softened, his body relaxing at the verbal assurances that she was alright, offering an arm for her to pull herself to sit. "That was quite a scramble. Are you alright?"

He loosed a low confident laugh, his fingers making short work of the ties holding the cloak tight around her neck as she took his proffered arm and sat up. "Of _course_ , I'm alright! It'll take much more than a bit of weather to keep down this much concentrated awe- **HEY!"**

"Goodness me, you are both soaked through." Almyra interrupted, having dropped a towel on the boastful albino's head and was working it to dry him off, despite his loudly German protests. "Maatil."

One of the maids nearby turned to face the older woman in response.

"Have the kitchens brew a pot of coffee to be taken to the upper reading lounge. Make sure the fireplace is running." The Head of House ceased ruffling Gilbert's head with the towel as the maid addressed left to do the tasks set. "There you are, young Master. Damp, not wet."

"' _Young Master',_ my ass. I wasn't even damp!" came the disgruntled muffle from under the towel as he reached up to pull it down, looking more raggled than usual and drawing a small bit of laughter from the taller Nation.

Almyra nodded sternly at the glare he gave her, but ignored him otherwise. She bent and picked up the cloak, draping it over an arm with a bright clamour. "Feel free to leave your effects here in the atrium, Mistress. Maatil should have the fireplace upstairs going."

"We will. Thank you, Almyra." Zhemyna told her, listening as the shorter Prussian woman left the room, the jingling cloak drowning out Gilbert's chirp of, "Hag!" after her.

"Head of House." Zhemyna corrected, working at removing her boots before standing and making short work of the gloves and overcoat. A tsk was awarded as she noticed her skirt and the collar of her blouse were indeed wet. It seeped halfway up the fabric and muted the colors in the fine embroidery along the hems, mixing them into the darkened white cloth behind. "It seems I _was_ a bit soaked through from this endeavour..."

Gilbert offered a snort as he left his own gloves neatly on the table, removing his puffy winter jacket and draping it with meticulous propriety across the back of one chair, working at his boots. Gilbird sprang back into existence from its hiding place to perch back on his head, fluffing up in an attempt to get comfortable before sighing down into his hair. "And yet, the old biddy ruffles my beautiful head and forgoes you and your sopping wetness. It's completely unfair, where's the justice!"

"Well, calling her a hag probably does not get you on her 'People To Look Forward To' list." she told him, wringing the water out of the bottom of her skirts so she wouldn't drip across the rest of the house.

He shrugged, artfully dodging the small puddles she made around herself. "I call it as I see it. She has been nothing but a hag to me, therefore she remains a hag." The wind rose in volume outside the whitened atrium, leaving no visual of the outside world but plenty of audio to imagine the whiteout it must have been. He looked toward the veiled glass dome, then over his shoulder to the corridor into the house. "...I heard something about the reading lounge?"

She took a long step to cross her small puddles, receiving his scoff of, "Show-off..." as she made her way after him. She decided to ignore it, focusing on the inquiry of events to come as she joined him. "Yes. Fresh coffee and the fireplace."

He waited until she was next to him to begin the trek through the manor's halls toward the stairs to the second floor. " _Gut_. I look forward to finally warming up."

"Hopefully with company." she suggested, receiving a chortle of what she took as confirmation in return.

The first steps padded along the wood floor of the hall beyond, muted to barely pats as they transitioned from bare wood to thin hardy carpet of green and gold, echoed still in the ebony framing along the walls. They were practically in unison, Zhemyna with her elegant sweeping stride alongside Gilbert with his strutting march. Who was leading, none could tell, only that their steps matched near perfectly, their arms close enough to brush and touch on each pass.

Lightly, she poked at his lower arm on a pass, her fingertips brushing the pale skin along the curve of the muscle, a silent request for his hand. He offered her a brief glance, remaining silent while he raised his hand to wrap around hers.

Her hands were cold, but the shock of his frigid fingers clasping around hers reminded her not everyone was suited to the chill of winters on the Baltic seaboard. A twinge of a thought flitted through her mind as she wondered how it was he had survived it to begin with if he grew so frozen even when bundled. A question for another time. Slowly, she extended her fingers in his grasp, twined them between his and squeezed. It felt good to feel him squeeze back, a sign of comfort, of stability.

Stability that was soon coming to an end.

He tilted his head up to look her in the eye, a grin beginning to split his face again and paired with the devious glimmer behind his red eyes. The mischievous snicker that was loosed made her momentarily regret asking to hold his hand, the jolt as he bounced a half-step and took off running through the hall almost knocking her over with a choked noise of surprise. It took a couple steps for her to catch pace with him without tripping over herself or the rug, any semblance of apprehension melted away to join in his revelry at being inside the warmer confines of the manor, next to each other.

Down the hall, around the seating area outside her office, into the south lounge. The walls sang in the wake of their trek, the polished ebony capturing their joint laughter and ringing it back so it felt like the house was taking part in their joviality. A shared space made just for them, speaking comforts only they would understand even through the howling wind and snow outside.

The front doors in the entry hall were rattling in their frame as they made their way to the stairs. She glanced at them and slowed, pulling her hand from his to check the frame-bolts out of habit. On seeing that both the frame-bolts and the deadbolt locks were in place, she turned up the stairs with small hopes Gilbert hadn't run the whole flight as he usually did, leaving her a gap to close. Her hand made for the banister, instinctively routine, but stopped before it made contact. Her progress was halted before she put a foot down on the first step, but not by the fact that the albino Nation had planted himself firmly on the step above, effectively blocking the way up.

It was his hands, a little warmer than before but still chilly to the touch, gently touching her head at her jawline and making her gasp at the intrusion of such cold against her warm skin. His lips, level with hers through use of the stairs, pressed to hers. The surprise of it made her stop, the yearn of her heart for such contact that made her push back and return it. The pull away from him was slow, leaving her pulse pounding and her cheeks hot, though the renewed flush across his proved it was not one-sided.

She offered him a smirk of her own, recognizing and not drawing attention to the fact that he had to use the stairs to achieve being level to her. "Really."

A noncommittal shrug was given her in response, his own grin breaking through once more. "You wanted one, but it was too cold. Now that it's not, I figured it was a good time to deliver."

It was admittedly hard to keep the smile from spreading across her face at that, the low laugh that escaped. "I am blessed to have such a diligent devoted husband."

He loosed his hissing snicker, obviously pleased with the small amount of praise she paid him. "Only the best."

Such an open response, though she figured that it was likely in arrogance. She liked to think it was for her, a hidden message of affection. One she returned as openly as she had received, planting a small peck of a returned kiss to his bottom lip adoringly. "The fireplace should be lit by now, and I am sure there are blankets and coffee cups with our names on them."

He moved back, turning around to climb the stairs, his hand rested on the polished raw-wood of the banister as she placed hers on it and followed him up. "Hm. Isn't hot chocolate more traditional for post-snowplay?"

"Only when both parties can relax. I still have work to finish, but you can make a special request to the attending maid, if you want. I am sure Maatil would not mind getting you hot chocolate."

He tsked, turning his head at the sound of her admittance to eventually making her way back to the daily grind he'd schemed to pull her away from. "And here I thought I could keep you all day."

She loosed a derisive little laugh. "It needs to be done, as I know you understand, but I will still stay and warm up with you for a bit. And your punishment is officially redacted. We can spend the night together instead. All night."

"Yeah, okay." He sounded hurt by the news of her having to leave before his demeanour shifted drastically. He had barely put a foot down on the landing when he declared, "First one to the reading lounge gets all the blankets!"

There was a flurry of movement as all facades dropped, a mixture of their laughter as they ran the rest of the way up the stairs to the third floor. The manor documented their journey through its plastered halls, the ebony holding fast to their energy and echoing it back, making even the smallest nooks and crannies a little brighter in their wake despite the storm outside scratching at the windows and doors as though pleading for entry.

* * *

The wind died finally, a swirling rattle of the southeasterly blusters fighting among the seaward blizzards that lasted hours. Zhemyna was reminded of old stories about storm-birds who fought for dominance, the shrieking of the winds colliding and the loud scratching of icy talons on hardy plastering and thick glass windows tempered for the weather. She could only imagine what it looked like outside the big bay window behind the still-closed heavy brocade curtains in her office.

Eventually, the southern wind won out, leaving her alone outside the occasional maid checking in to see that her coffee cup was refilled. Such treatment had ended more than two hours ago, meaning only one thing. The staff had left the main manor for their quarters on the grounds now that they could brave the weather again. Even after the snow and blizzard'ing earlier in the day, Prussians were too stubborn to let even foot traffic be hampered for long. She suspected the groundskeepers had carved new paths in the drifts and packs to assure access to all parts of the estate. Which left the main manor in a state of heavy silence outside her cracked office door.

Even Gilbert seemed to be relatively silent, which on its own could be worrying. He hadn't made a noise since wishing her fond work ethics after the usual dinner battle campaigns had ended and they split ways, but no one came to her with any updates on the albino's shenanigans. Nor had she heard any noise that would make her worry for the well-being of her house. Or her husband.

The dim golden glow of the desk lamp was just enough light for her, finding the overhead light caused headaches to form when she worked under it too long. The folder of expansion commentary was laid out neatly as before, the scratch of her pen's tip across the final papers only slightly muted by the ticking of the clock on the wall or the sip of steaming coffee from her mug. A scrawl of her signature along the bottom line of the last page was given and, with a heaving sigh, she closed the folder and returned the pen to its base under the lamp.

A glance at the clock on the wall told her she had been at it long enough, ticking dangerously close to one. A brief peek between the curtains to glimpse the outside assured it was indeed one in the _morning_ , the clouds hanging low and glowing eerie orange, streetlights in Paleugmeddi reflected against the heavy overcast.

With a low grumble, she stood up and grabbed the mug and folder from her desk, flicking the desk light off and moving toward the sliver of light through the cracked door to the hallway. She drank down the rest of the cold coffee, unsurprised when it did nothing except taste awful, letting the creeping fatigue gathering throughout the night weigh her down while gathering a film on the back of her throat. Bed was calling, and Gilbert was probably already asleep.

"So much for that promise." she huffed under her breath as she made her way to the kitchen first to put the mug in the sink, then across the hall to the entry to drop the folder into its appropriate mailing sheath above the decorative table under the stairs. It would be noticed and delivered to parliament by the mail-drivers who arrived in the morning.

The sound of the heavy paper shuffing across the metal container and clanging loud enough to echo through the empty foyer drew another noise from the front lounge closest to her office. A shuffle of fabric on upholstery, rubbing against it with weight behind it. It made her pause, stopping and looking over her shoulder toward the lounge before moving to check on it. Best case scenario, it was the Puuki of the first floor making small mischief as the house-spirits were wont to do. Worst case, it was an intruder, though she had no idea why any mortal in their right mind would intrude on a known Nation's property.

She barely made it to the archway when a voice issued from the room beyond, grating coarseness on a tired half-slurred German accent. A relief, at any stretch. "Issat you?"

She entered the room to spot the Puuki she had originally considered peering curiously from the hall beyond the other entrance, though it scuttled out of sight again to whichever end it wanted. It was best not to question the motives or intent of hobgoblins. Her attention shifted as she rounded the furniture to the center of the room to find Gilbert stretched along the length of the sofa and looking like he had just woken up.

A sleepy crooked grin began spreading its way across his face at the sight of her. "Ah yes. Is you." He added as he stretched himself out in full, barely half-awake, "Done or just a break?"

"I am ... finished." The confusion was more than evident on her voice, feeling her face twist to match it. "Why are you not in bed? I told you such punishment was a joke and should not be taken seriously."

" _Nein_. I disobeyed a _direct_ order from command, and appropriate reprimand should be taken. No matter how stupid it seemed at the time." he told her, almost bemused at her confusion. He made a show of snuggling down into the cushions beneath him, one arm behind his head and closing his eyes. "Redacting punishments only says that the offending behaviour is alright to keep doing, it is not a good means to curb it. So go to bed, North. I will be a couch-dweller tonight."

She looked toward the entrance she had come from, toward the entryway and subsequent stairway to the floors above. She could easily walk up the stairs and go through the nighttime routines without him, snuggle into the big warm bed, and sleep the rest of the night. But sleep was tugging too hard at her for her to properly navigate the stairs, she felt. And although the bed was warm, the lack of company after sharing it for so long made it seem so cold and uninviting...

"Well. Since you are being so impossibly regimental at the moment, I suppose I will have to change such disciplinary measures to suit me."

"Wha- **oof!** "He cracked an eye open in time to feel her carefully land across him, nuzzling a leg and an arm between him and the sofa back and burrowing herself against him. " _Mein Gott,_ woman, what are you _eating_!"

"Do not bring my weight into this, this is your own fault." she admonished him, a twinge of playfulness tugging at her weary tone. "I know I will not get your stubborn ass to sleep next to me, so you will have to put up with me sleeping on _you_. Besides." Her voice lessened into a pout. "That bed is far too big and far too lonely to sleep in by oneself."

The snort he unleashed echoed through his chest into the ear she had resting against him. "That almost gave me constipation, it was so damned cheesy."

"I do apologize for your metaphoric innards." she poked, letting herself relax and hearing him pretend to wheeze beneath her. "Now, either you are coming to bed, or I will stay right here with you. There is no in-between."

He made a noise that was somewhere between thinking and disgruntlement before flopping back in apparent defeat. "Fine. Fine, you can stay there. But if any part of me is still asleep when I wake up, I'm blaming you."

She laughed, hearing the same reverberated in the ear still against him, then yawned. "I can take that, I suppose..."

He settled back against the sofa, resting his free hand against one of her shoulders, rolling a low rattling chuckle at her admittance. "Small victories. Good night, North."

The weariness she had been staving off through the exchange finally caught up to her, stopping any processes that might have formulated even the most basic of words. The numbness of sleep took hold, tugged at her to the rhythm of his breathing and his pulse beneath her ear. On the border of sleep, she was only vaguely aware of his hand moving, his fingers lightly brushing rogue locks of her hair back from her face. She felt more than heard his final words in the last waking seconds, vibrating with the lethargic croak of someone else on the verge of sleep through him and into her. Letting his voice add the necessary feeling of security.

" _Mein liebling_..."

* * *

 **A/N** : I haven't written for Gilbert in over eight years and it shows...  
Written for a dear friend of mine as a much-belated Christmas/New Year's present, in thanks to them for helping me get this ship off the ground. They are amazing.  
Enjoy.


	2. The Knight and the Goddess I: Hallowed

The bell was tolling, louder than before, rippling the water around him. He could feel it in his chest, hear it echoing and encompassing in the dark cold depths. A stark contrast to before the water closed in, sounding like the little silver bells he had seen the pagan priests ring during funerary processions, leading the grievers and the swaddled corpse deeper into the mires.

Terror set in when the first of the slimy digits appeared and wrapped around his arms first, crawling up his body, his legs, his neck, his head. Frigid in death, slick in decay, they grabbed and anchored, appearing from the murk just out of sight.

Had he been in a better position, he may have thought of looking toward the source, but once the whispering started in time to the sound of the bell, beating out an ancient heartbeat to give the murmured incantations rhythm, he lost interest and focused instead on freeing himself. A stream of bubbles left him, muffling the scream of frustration and blind panic as his futile struggles remained stuck fast in the grip of those floating below in the ink of uncertainty of the pool.

* * *

Golden light was cutting through, the light of midday in autumn. The water was tinted with it, mingling with the muddied greens and turning it into fine bottle glass. The bell was deafening, aided by the cacophonous choir of the dead.

Some of the whispers, he had grown to understand, plaintive wails and begging for him to stay. They fell on muted ears, hearing them but never responding, suspended between the sucking floor of the pool and the surface like a cruel joke. Light played off his pale face, off the black cross he brandished as a sick irony.

He didn't hear her breach the surface, only saw her cut through the green bottle glass and with the sun behind her head, his water-feebled mind told him she wore the halo. Bore wings the color of green and shined light behind her head in brilliant gold. It seemed to follow her in threads, clinging to her hands and hair and toes, lighting the space around her the further down she went, the closer she came.

The bell was gone, faded out to a cobweb memory, fragile in its existence from the start and with the anchor thread snapped, it held no more point or purpose. Before darkness finally took him, he felt the hands release him, felt himself start to sink into the murk and the muck, imagining the Goddess with the midday golden autumn behind her head as she descended on him, trailing the blazing sun with her into the abyssal void.

* * *

His lungs hurt, the mail felt heavier than normal. His vision was blurry, lethargic as he glanced around him on startling awake.

The tunic was heavily saturated, the chainmail and the wool as well. It clung to him, made it harder to breathe than it was already. Vague remembrances of coughing water, heaving and hacking, throwing it from his system like bad meat. He could still taste the fetid water on his tongue, on his lips.

Rot and decay.  
 _Death_.

He was held tightly in warm arms, and for a moment, he thought it was one of his people, his knights. With the haze evening out, he could see clearly that it was not and had he been in better spirits, he would have fought her for the right to walk. But he was tired, so he left it and remained leaned against her, soaked through and dripping as well, but confident. In her stride was pride, the loft of her head, the way her arms cradled him. For now, it was warm and comforting and he didn't want to be left alone.

He could almost hear her heartbeat with his ear resting against her chest, slow and steady and patient. The rock of her gait, gentle and strong. The rustle of tall grass and wild rye growing out of the edge of the bordering marshes, sticking to her wet wool. He mused for a moment that her hair was lying flat, something he didn't get to see often. It was a strange detail to take comfort in, but she was real and he was alive, the golden sun clutching at her as she made her way to drier ground. The thought that this was real gave him security and like the child he was, he fell asleep in the sun and the breeze.

He would not stay asleep for long.

* * *

 **A/N** : Bit of practice in written-palette work for another drabble I'm working on. A short set of scratches that will have illustrations to go with them eventually. Some small Teuton and the Goddess Prussia.


	3. Duality

She was trained on the fiddle. A simple instrument, one made for simple farmers. And she, though revered to them as their mother of earth, was still just as simple as they were.

Her first fiddle was a gift from her fifty-second mother, a short and round woman, very stout but very authoritative. Perhaps it was that she was the chieftain's wife of this clan that made her such, but for all her crass control, she was still kind and just. As a mother should be, as well as a monarch of her lands.

Zhemyna had taken the appearance of a twelve-year-old child at that point, all curls and swirls and petite little dresses and caps on her head that never stayed on without threat of gluing them down. Her fingers barely fit the neck of the instrument, though she still learned how to handle such a thing for festivals and religious ceremonies and even just a stress outlet. Even with such small child's hands, she managed still to play the fiddle properly.

She played it for over a millennium, filling out to look early twenties. She had bore through so many strings, so many bows. The instrument itself had been restored several times, cleaned and maintained by a careful professional hand. She was playing it when she met Baptiste.

Frenchmen were not a regular entity in North Prussia, much less in budding Paleugmeddi. She was playing with a few street-bards, a rousing little jaunt from one of the outlying rurals that had half the crowd surrounding them clapping and stomping and dancing, reveling in the cluster of her people and feeling their energy swirl through her as though it made her flaring skirts, as any Nation should and that she was sure all Nations did. A naive notion, but she had yet to understand how detached most other cultures were kept from that which represented their sum peoples.

He had stopped to listen, to applaud when the set was done. To approach her when she moved away to let the little group play their own pieces, to fill the air with music they had been working on. Though notorious farmers and thought bumpkins, Prussians still had an air of creativity to them, and to her, it was always good to let it build and express on their own without interference.

His Prussian was terrible. It was the first thing she noticed. His inflection was wrong, his accent unsteady as one who is still novice. Words were stuttered as he tried to speak them, but thankfully she knew what he was attempting to say, correcting when she could as patiently as any teacher.

He was new to her country, had moved there for the wintery air and the balmy summers, for the people and the energy and the blooming loam in spring. He thought her a normal human at first, come from one such culture who isolates their peoples from their representative. He was surprised and maybe taken aback when she corrected that. Given that he was now Prussian as well, she assured, he should know who she was.

His nervousness was tangible, she decided to point out the case he carried with him as something of a distraction. A violin case, soft and black, meticulously cared for with polished hardware gleaming. The unease melted from his beaming face at her notice and he told her that he would show her what it was if she accompanied him to his home. That it was not a thing he wished to show in public. Apprehension was apparent at this announcement, accompanied by awkwardness. She knew what that could mean in some mortal minds. However, curiosity got the better of her and with assurances to herself that she could defend herself against a human mortal if need be, she agreed.

His intentions were pure, for as soon as he lead her to his dingy one-room loft above the fisheries of one of the many conglomerated harbors and shut the door, he set the case on the scruffy bed in one corner of the room and snapped it open. In the faint grey light pouring through the hazy oceanic morning, she saw it gleam.

He pulled out a violin, though not one of plain polished wood, but a shining masterpiece of work adorned with enameled flowers inlaid with panels of cut nacre on a polished blackwood, of carved horse heads and bodies along the delicate neck. It was magnificent, she had never seen such an instrument here in the furthest northern reaches of her country. To her, it might have been wrought by the god of music himself. The bow was just as finely matched in aesthetics as it was for functionality, and when he pulled it across the strings in a hauntingly lilting tune, it was as though he played with her heartstrings attached.

So rich, so full a sound. It filled her and tickled such depths of her emotions into being. She almost did not feel the tears spring to her eyes.

He stopped, worried her crying was a negative reaction. Once she realized, she begged him continue. Let him know that to her, it was the most beautiful sound in the world. In response, he clicked a small lever next to the neck and continued to play for her. The sounds changed, a chorded melody that sounded as though it was a duet of violins, so solid was the second tone. A tune still so dark and eerie that the walls themselves felt like they were closing in to listen.

His name was Baptiste, he said, pronounced like the fabric. She found him to be just as soft and gentle as such. And she loved him.

He wanted to be a musician, even if it was just a street-bard playing a corner for coin. To spread music was more his desires and here, the old sea and highland loam and basalt crags spoke more to him than anywhere else. It was as haunted a place as ever, a perfect match for his equally strange violin. He offered to teach her to play it, in exchange for linguistic lessons. She readily accepted this deal, enthused to start as soon as possible.

One day every week, she arrived at his doorstep. Three hours of teaching him her language, her accents and dialects, the slang to help him pass as a native. Letting him talk about himself and his homeland and his dreams and his goals, incentive to learn and in turn, teach as well. One hour for a break before he would take out that pretty violin and she learned and relearned the scales. The formats were similar, but a violin is much bigger than the fiddle she played and knew by heart.

For months, the lessons persisted until he could hold a full conversation with a complete stranger without dropping back into his native French accent, and she could play a simple song and not just scales. She was readying to tell him his language lessons were complete, he sounded like a native, when he took initiative and silenced her with a kiss, followed by an apology for intruding on her space 'like a common vagrant', as he put it. In perfect Prussian, no less. She assured him it was quite fine and after a little longer spent talking, woke the next morning wrapped in his arms on the grungy little bed in his tiny decrepit apartment.

She loved him as a lover should and lessons for the violin continued with different payment spent entangled until dawn. Though she left in spring and autumn for the planting seasons and the harvest, though she spent her days playing the hostess to festivals and ceremonies, she returned to him. She saw him grow over time from a corner street-performer to playing in smaller venues and when he started accompanying his melancholy haunting violin tunes with his waveringly haunted voice, her heart sang and pulled along with him and his playing.

He moved from that dingy one-room loft above the fisheries with its oily walls and wafting smell of dead fish to a more pleasant and cleaner loft in the inner city. She watched him change from small venues barely holes in the walls to concert halls that would echo and reverberate his voice and his music back to him and fill a room as though a complete orchestra was playing, a choir singing as though gods above could hear such tones and returned it all with highest praise. There was magic tangible in the air where he went and people would sing his successes until the air itself rang in the streets where he walked.

Oh, how she loved him and his mind and his talent and his gentleness and his heart. Oh, how she coveted their time together, spent listening to him devise a new song and rehearse it for her first so she could hear it raw from the source, how he would pridefully take her out with him where he went and saw her as his special guest wherever he was invited. How he wrapped her in his arms and so loved her back when she told him of her adventures and of what she learned and the new stars in her wafting mane and where they were mirrored in the night skies above. How she would wake with the sun and the moon in her eyes when she saw him there, sleeping peacefully beside her.

Oh, how she loved him.

It is sad to say that Nations love mortals, how immortality can be a trying thing when they do. To watch one you spend such sweet time with wither and age while you stay young, it takes one of strong constitution to handle such change. Or a note of training, a constant to be used to it, and she was sure that this is what helped her with Baptiste, having sunk so many mothers and sisters and fathers and brothers before him.

She knew when he was aging, when his bones were creaking too much to walk the stairs in his house, the final move after his successes. She never changed, but he did. Grey and stiff, every joint and bone crickling and crackling with strain. She helped him where she could, offering to help realign his back or rub his shoulders or carry him up and down the stairs. She helped him to sleep at night, looking hardly older than the day she had met him while he could barely move, a vision of snow in morning sun and carved canyons in his face and hands. Earned, every one.

He was smiling in peace when he left her, with the golden sun tinting his ancient silver mane the colors she remembered it being, having told her to take the one possession he could have never parted with in life. When it had passed hands, so had he simply sighed into his eternal sleep, breathing his soul seemingly physically into the pretty violin as special to her now as he was.

She did not cry when she wrapped him in the shroud, white and gauzy as the fabric his name was pronounced for. She did not cry when she tied the glittering golden cord around him, to light his way across the border into the Otherworld and guide him through the veins of Prussia what sprouted from the swamps. She did not cry as many of the fans of his works did when she carried him to the pools where so many more of her families in the past lay, near and far, and let him drop into the murky swampy depths.

She cried in secrecy, hiding among the basalt crags on the spring-bloom loam, and clutching the case of her inheritance to her as though afraid letting go would lose him forever.

* * *

The haze this morning is grey. Oceanic, with the breeze blowing off the sea and carrying a hint of brine over the spring-bloom loam. Delicate white flowers, a tiny tinge of blue dusted among the vibrant dark green tinted with foggy light. It is a quiet day, still as the dead.

Melancholy tugs at her, pulls her heartstrings as she sits in the music room with a cup of steaming coffee in her hands. Staring out the big bay windows in the main acoustic chamber toward the untouched landscape of the loam and basalt terraces beyond her property with a similar haze across her eyes.

The coffee is set down on a table, she climbs the stairs to the attic behind the Baroque-replica harpsichord in the entry room, making her practiced way between boxes and trinkets and treasures that still have yet to find a place. It is hidden behind a few empty violin cases, made of plastic rather than the classic wooden construction of this one. The covering is perhaps a little bit stained and ratty, she muses that she should probably take it to be restored soon.

Back down into the acoustic chamber, she sets the case next to her coffee cup and snaps it open, pulling the lid up with a creak of the old silver hinges. The violin comes to join her for the morning, and after a session of restringing its ancient neck and tuning it ever so carefully, she flicks open the second chamber and drags the bow over the strings. The sound reverberates around the room, singing to the ebony framing, the flooring, into the doorframes and window wells, across the glass panes. It is familiar, it is haunting, it is ringing, it is calming.

The dual-chamber violin is a marvel of engineering, causing the clear sound of two instruments in tune to be heard where there is only one. The sounds of one playing, a duet with a ghost. The song she plays is so sad, so full of remembrance for a time long before, that the very sound of it echoing through the young manor makes the walls weep and the ebony wail.

* * *

 **A/N** : I got dragged back into Hetalia. You all know the disclaimers of us old folks (I own nothing but my OCs, blahblahblah), so I'll just tell a wee bit of backstory for this timeline to avoid confusion. Zhemyna is Old Prussia. In this timeline, Gilbert never slaughtered her people (which effectively killed her in ours) and instead they fortified themselves up in the north, northeast of Prussian territories backed up against Lithuania while Teuton got the southern lowlands. So there's two Prussias now; Gilbert in the South with his title by ducal conquer and Zhemyna in the North, still maintaining her life and just trying to live it without being told she's doing it wrong. They've gone 0 Days of someone not telling them to convert to Christianity.  
So welcome to this new mess of mine, there will be shipping afoot and in my typical stylings of canonxoc. you have been forewarned. otherwise, thanks for reading!


	4. Valentine's 2018

She's fairly used to empty boxes. After all, she doesn't even handle the bills for the estate; those go to the accountant who add them to the expenses to be paid by the state. Not an uncommon thing. But even on today, of all days, the metaphoric 'moth in the emptiness' seems a little strange.

Nothing. Not even a letter of scorn from Tolys, which is _usually_ what graces the mailbox on St. Valentine's. Something about her not being Catholic and therefore doomed to fall like the snakes or ... something to that general device, she never understood Catholics. Especially those only using it as an excuse when it seems convenient for them. She shrugs it off, assuming he is finally busying himself with that pompous ass he calls a boyfriend as she returns to the house.

They have given the staff the day off to do as they will. Even Almyra has gone for the day. Unusual for the Head of House, who has been diligent in her duties for well over a century now. Without the stout Prussian barking orders and keeping the house in line, what's left of the color has drained from the house, the light inside feeling grainy, the pressure of quiet creeping in. It's always strange to not hear things in the halls, the dogs' movements muffled as they come sit at her feet. She should be doing work by now, but she can't really concentrate.

The morning passes by, lunch at noon. She eats in silence, sips her coffee, pats the dogs, and lays out a new plan for the day, not content to sit on the couch in the library and do hardly anything but take up space. The day kitchen is cleaned, a grumbling of 'why must the house be so damned massive' under her breath as she ascends the stairs to change into her gardening clothing, the dogs on her heels with waggling tails and siren-whines in their throats in their own excitement at being allowed to go outside for more than the bathroom.

She is exiting the stairwell to the second floor when the doorbell rings. She wonders at first if she should get it, though the dogs go flying back down the stairs toward the door, their joyous howling making up her mind with a raising of hands in defeat as she follows after them. The delivery guy for one of the local florists is almost confused as she opens the door, exasperatedly trying to keep the swamphounds from bolting out the door in greeting.

Finally under control, but no less expressing their greetings vocally, she looks up in time to accept a large vase full of various flowers, colored in the crisp of autumn. Gold, brown, bronze, red. The little card tied with ribbon around it betrays the sender as her councilmen of the parliament.

She gives a small thanks to the young man, intending to shut the door and find a place to put the bouquet when he puts a hand up.

"Actually, there's more." Before she can confirm his statement, he continues. "The entire council came into the shop apparently, and as soon as the other customers learned what they were doing, it became _the thing_."

"... _The thing_..." she repeats, mirroring the emphasis.

"Oh yes. The entire truck is strictly for you. This is just the one I had near me from the cab." He indicates the flowers she holds now.

"Oh..."

"Yeah. Should I ... bring them now?"

"Oh yes, please. I will put this somewhere and be out to help in a moment."

* * *

The entirety of the first floor is covered in flowers, vases keeping clusters contained, but not keeping them from touching or mingling among each other. Floral forests cover almost every conceivable flat surface that isn't a floor, a splash of colorful ribbons here and there with little paper cards attached with names and well wishes and holiday greetings written across them in various and sundry handwriting styles. The day kitchen is packed with meticulously-stacked boxes of sugar and cocoa treats, from those who sought to go an extra mile. In a race to not be outbid, one of the guest rooms upstairs has a good many boxes that contain other things not edible. She suspects scarves, mostly.

Four trucks followed the first, from different florists. She had been warned that the trend started up and took off so much that the first had to outsource customers to even competing companies. A cascade effect from there; the flood of those who knew what to do telling others as they went. She hadn't expected to see so much, to be honest.

Looking around in bewilderment, she surveys the volume of color splayed before her in every room. She will have to move some around to the upper floors to space them out a bit more. Beyond the confusion and shock that something like this could even happen with such raw ferocity, she feels something else. A familiar twinge, an energy. Gifts bought and sent selflessly in love, it swirls around her feet and legs, winds its way around her in an adoring embrace.

She is them, they are her. In their intent and motivation, she can feel the rattle of this strong residual emotion they left behind in doing this, moving through her veins, her chest. Tingling in her fingers and toes, the tip of her nose. They love her, and in turn love _themselves_. In that moment, she comes to a conclusion: it is alright to love oneself. There is no harm in that.

The thought that follows as she tries to wrestle a chrysanthemum out of Shuck's mouth is that as soon as these flowers begin to wilt, the maids are going to be angry.

* * *

The light of dawn peeked through the crack in the heavy curtains drawn over the bay windows of the bedroom, the sliver of pink-orange creeping across the ceiling until it fell on the bed and the two sleeping forms burrowed within the quilted comforter.

It fell across Zhemyna's eyes, causing her to blink them open and shift a little. The grog of morning was still heavy, her vision starting to focus enough to catch the tinge of pastel touching the tips of Gilbert's hair, the blaze of creeping morning sun causing the white of both hair and skin to alight as though on fire. Her senses were soon to reawaken following sight. The sound of him breathing, slow and shallow; the smell of clean bed linens, ancient plaster, and the undertone tang of bodies; the feel of his arm limply resting over her waist, his skin beneath her own arm draped at his mid-torso.

Her fingers twitched, her arm moved slowly until she rested the palm of her hand against his side. Even so slight a motion stirred him, the breath he took in loud and deep enough she could see it heave his chest, feel it beneath her resting hand.

Her eyes traced his body, along the blazing edge defined by the ever-rising sun's light. Over the shadows cast across his chest, his stomach to where the blankets covered him. Her hand moved again, the palm lifting to leave only the light touches of her fingertips to explore those pale hills and valleys that met her gaze.

Across his stomach, tracing over his chest, along his collarbone, over his neck and along his jawline. Her thumb brushed along his lower lip, her eyes tracing his face, committing it to her memory all over again. He was beautiful, peaceful in his sleep, and as she moved her exploring hand back toward the hinge of his jaw, she felt him stir more. His arm over her waist moved, his eyelids were beginning to flutter, his lips parted just slightly.

She leaned in slowly, brushed his lips with hers before meeting them. She felt the breath draw in, once more deep and slow in his chest as though the kiss were putting life to him, his arm shifting to rest the hand against her hip. It wasn't very long, lethargic. When they parted and she rested her head back to the pillow next to his, she caught sight of the red of his eyes slowly unveiling themselves to the world. They were still glazed with early waking, though he was certainly awake enough to offer a small smile to being greeted as such.

" _Kaiils ankstaainai_ …" she offered to him, her voice stuttered and crackling from disuse. It didn't stop her returning the smile.

Once more, he heaved a sigh of a breath to set the normal breathing rate, his eyes starting to sharpen as he moved, shifting himself amid blankets and sheets so that he could bury his face carefully against her throat and collarbone. "…Your morning breath tastes gross…"

* * *

 **A/N** : The first one is kinda personal to me; I went through a depressive spell and wrote that on a whim to make me feel better about writing and creating in general. It takes place quite a bit of time before Gil arrives in the picture.

The second one is clearly after he shows up and was an Ask Meme sent to me from my main Gil RPer on Tumblr.

Apologies for the sudden shift in perspectives; they're from two separate dribbles.


End file.
